


Sirius on the Run

by byebyebluejay



Series: Sirius Black and the Hunt for Peter Pettigrew [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dementors, Gen, On the Run, POV Sirius Black, Past Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Sirius Black Free from Azkaban, Sirius Black as Padfoot, reference to the existence of suicide, some rude language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:41:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byebyebluejay/pseuds/byebyebluejay
Summary: After twelve years in Azkaban, Sirius makes his escape. This story covers the period from his discovery that Peter Pettigrew is alive and well, living as a Hogwarts student's pet, to his theft of a wand and arrival in Surrey to see his godson.
Series: Sirius Black and the Hunt for Peter Pettigrew [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1561846
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	Sirius on the Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeralCreed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeralCreed/gifts).



**July 24th, 1993:**

If it weren’t for the window, there would be no distinguishing night and day in Azkaban. The Dementors were sleepless, and their presence sapped sunlight. It wasn’t as though there was a graveyard shift or guard changes to account for. The sheer unpleasantness of the place meant that—at least when Sirius was brought in at the height of high security and paranoia—no Aurors were stationed on the island. This was immediately obvious to Sirius. An hour of furious thought brought new and old realizations too. The Dementors, eager though they were for hope or happiness, and excitable though they got when a death loomed close, were insensible or indifferent to rage. One drifted by his cell like a feather on a breeze, seemingly unaware that Sirius’s thoughts had made a dramatic shift from a tacit acceptance of death to a fury that warmed him up better than a shot of firewhiskey.

The dementors also thought nothing of Padfoot. The Ministry was stupid for keeping blind, evil, instinctive creatures like Dementors as prison guards, but for once, Sirius was glad they did. He couldn’t fit his human skull out through the bars, but a couple of seconds in his animagus form taught him that getting out would involve nothing more than a squeeze. Maybe in the first couple years he would have had trouble managing it, but now that he was just skin and bones, it would be as easy as holding his breath. Getting off the island would be more difficult, but Sirius remembered his star charts well enough to navigate by sky. And if people could swim the fucking Channel for the hell of it, then he could swim back to the mainland to ring the ever-loving shit out of Peter’s rat spine.

After that he’d have no wand, and the Ministry would probably have wizards and muggles alike on the hunt for him, but if Remus had kept his mouth shut, no one would be looking for a big black dog. Sirius would have to survive without money, shelter or a reliable source of food, but he’d been doing that for twelve years anyway. By comparison, the British cities and countryside would probably be a bloody paradise. Far fewer Dementors. Anyway, Padfoot didn’t mind the taste or texture of whole, raw rat.

There was no time to lose, lest the Dementors find a way to leech out his wrath too. There wasn’t much to wait for, anyway. The weeks brought no change in Azkaban but for the temperature, and it wouldn’t get any warmer now that the dog days of summer were almost on them. Sirius snorted at his own lame pun, and felt rather than saw a Dementor look his way though a few feet of stone. Goosebumps prickled up his arm.

“Suck my cock, cumrag,” Sirius shouted at it, and the feeling faded away. Vicious in his victory, Sirius slammed his fist into the wall. The pain was surprising in its sharpness and immediacy, and he regretted it at once. He gave himself two night of sleep, eagerly eaten meals, and a few hours of memorizing the sky and the rhythm of the tides as preparation, attention grounded by one fact and one hateful desire: Peter was at Hogwarts, and at last, over a decade late, Sirius was going to murder him.

**July 27th, 1993:**

On the third day, the usual meal was served in the early afternoon, just shortly after the tides had reached their peak. Padfoot scarfed up the food, Sirius bolted down the water, and then, back in his animagus form again, he slipped out behind the Dementor who had just passed by. He sprinted down a hallway he hadn’t set foot on in over a decade. The eerie thing was how little had changed in that time, and how few ripples were left in his wake as he blazed past cells, lunging out of the way of a listless Dementor. Its head turned only seconds later to track his escape. In the cells he passed, the prisoners’ eyes didn’t follow his progress. They remained asleep, tossing in nightmares, or else curled comatose against the walls of their cells. There was only one difference he noticed.

Bellatrix Lestrange, filthy, skeletal and ragged as Sirius himself was, but with a definite clarity in her hooded eyes straightened up, and awful recognition bloomed in her face. In a second, she was clambering at the bars, reaching her clawed fingernails out for him. “Sirius!” She shrieked, “ _Sirius Black!_ ” And Sirius could have howled in laughter or spat in her face, but Padfoot could do neither, so he only raced forward, standing up on his hind legs when he reached the door to the tower’s stair and pushing down the handle. It opened smooth and silent on oiled hinges. Stupid of the Ministry, so stupid. But no one had ever gotten this far before, had they? It was only him. A memory of an old pureblood children’s rhyme (dark as fuck, but weren’t they all?) rose in his mind as he bounded down the stairs.

‘On Azkaban you will not find a door with lock or key,

The prisoners are guarded by the beasts who cannot see.

They’ve never been to Hogwarts, cannot cast a single spell,

But don’t get locked in Azkaban, you’re better off in hell.

On Azkaban you will not find a single stable mind,

When weighed against Dementors even death would be more kind.

Wizards have chained up dragons and can order any elf,

But Dementors are the only things that make you kill yourself.’

All true. But whatever maniac had dreamt up Azkaban had never accounted for him. Dizzy from the spiral stairs and from exertion but too giddy with his own success to pause, he opened the door to the entrance and his paws found wet, rough rock. Out before him stretched twin sheets of sea and sky, and their vastness called him like a bird by a breeze. Driven as much by a wave of mad delight as by his need for revenge as the Dementors’ influence fell away, Padfoot raced around the exterior corner of the prison tower to the point on the island he had judged pointed due west. Then, clambering down the rocks until they kissed the ocean waves, he drove headlong into the water.

His fur was no protection against the draining chill of the sea, but Sirius had shivered through a dozen winters in an open cell, and he didn’t allow himself pause as the cold water stole the air out of his lungs and stiffened his muscles. With one weather eye on the faint patch of brightness of the sun behind the clouds, Sirius swam. When his muscles began burning with exhaustion, he was grateful that he couldn’t feel the cold anymore. When they went numb, he was glad he couldn’t feel the burning. The joy of his escape faded with the suffering of that swim. Padfoot wasn’t in peak physical form. But his goal drove him onward, and when the sun set, and the stars were shaded by clouds, he just kept pressing forward as best he could. It was that or drown. And he couldn’t die before he killed Peter Pettigrew.

**Midnight, July 28th, 1993:**

Midnight brought a cold wind blowing down from the north, but it also brought the blessed sight of land. The welcoming lights of a city glowed from the horizon, and Sirius swam, as much to kill Peter as to preserve his own life. Sheer force of will could only push him so far, though. There was a physical limit, and it was exhausted and cold that Sirius dragged himself onto a beach.

There, above the shore on a dark hill, was Scarborough Castle, with the old town below. Sirius made the calculation from a sprawl in the sand, trying to fixate on facts to avoid slipping into unconsciousness. It would be stupid to be found here, sprawled on a beach and having tasted freedom. Eventually, once he’d caught his breath and the worst of the numbness had left his lungs, Sirius pushed himself to his knees and transfigured into Padfoot. He raided a garbage can behind a chip shop, eating cold, oil-sodden chips and licking up congealed curry sauce. He’d never tasted better. He snuck into the backyard of a muggle house to transfigure back behind a bush, and drink greedily from a garden hose. Dry, and with his hunger and thirst sated, Sirius curled up as Padfoot in the brush of a park and gave himself time to plan his journey to Hogwarts that he hadn’t spared himself during his time in Azkaban.

He didn’t know where the Weasley boy lived, or where his family worked, and it would be difficult to find out without a wand to aid him. The Hogwarts term didn’t start until September. Maybe it said something about Hogwarts that an attack seemed much easier to execute on its grounds than outside it. Then again, Sirius had a map of the castle carved into his heart. If he was going to wait until Weasley was back at school though, he had a little more than a month. It would be a boon to get a wand sooner, rather than later.

His thoughts flitted towards Remus, who likely thought him guilty; Remus, who’d been living who knew where, and doing who knew what. A long-quieted part of his heart tugged at him. He could go and search out the cabin in the woods that James had bought for Remus over a decade ago. But Remus wouldn’t want to see him, would have no reason to believe him. He needed proof. That could come first, in the form of Peter Pettigrew’s fresh corpse. So, a reunion with Remus would have to wait. But what about Harry? Sirius didn’t have to stretch his memory to remember Halloween night, 1981. He remembered his desperate conversation with Hagrid in vivid detail. The Dementors dredged it up all the time. Harry had gone to live with Lily’s sister Petunia in Little Whinging, Surrey. Harry’s birthday was in only a few days. Prongslet wouldn’t remember him and would only hear about him as a murderous traitor. Sirius didn’t have a birthday present to give him. It was illogical, but he still wanted to wish Harry a happy birthday and see that his godson was whole and well. Even if Sirius wouldn’t be able to speak to him. That was 250 miles away to the south.

That would be a five-day trek and would take him that much further from Hogwarts. He needed a wand. Hogsmeade was further. Godric’s Hollow was just as far. London nearly that. Sirius tried to remember the lessons his parents had taught him about magical geography in the UK; to recall where other magical conclaves were located. But he hadn’t paid attention, and time and dementors had not been kind to those mundane memories. Diagon Alley was his most reliable bet to snatch a wand. Turning his eyes to the sky, he found the Plough tucked inside Ursa Major, and Ursa Minor from there. He put his back to Polaris and started to walk.

**Morning, July 28th, 1993:**

With a luck and perfect timing, Padfoot managed to hop a bus headed to Leeds. He’d spotted the station just as the early routes were beginning to run, and while he hadn’t seen a bus headed for London, Leeds was at least a step in the right direction. He’d slipped onto the bus before anyone had boarded, and stowed away, curled into the smallest space possible under a seat at the back of the bus. He kept his eyes closed to look as little like a living thing as he could as the bus trundled through its three-hour journey. But he still could hear the conversation of the couple three seats in front of him.

“Look at this. There’s an escaped prisoner. All of England and Scotland are supposed to be on alert, but he’s suspected to be near the east coast, somewhere between Edinburgh and Hull. We’re right in the line of fire. Armed and dangerous. Responsible for thirteen murders.”

“Who’s this?”

“His name’s Sirius Black.”

“I’ve never heard of him. Where did he escape from? Frankland?” There was a sound of a paper being rifled through.

“Doesn’t say on the first page… No. Doesn’t say. I’ve never heard of him either.”

“Christ, look at him. Was he on a hunger strike or something? Or sick?”

“It doesn’t mention that, either. He looks filthy. I can’t believe they took his picture like that.”

“He looks like a walking human rights violation.”

“He’s a mass murderer.”

“You can’t let people get like that, though. It’s not right.”

“Probably refused to shower. At least we’ll smell him coming, eh?”

“Not funny.”

Sirius hadn’t seen himself since he’d been interred in Azkaban. Even when they’d taken a second picture of him, five years in. He was almost curious what the photo looked like. But he didn’t really want to see the face that would look back at him. It didn’t matter, anyway. He didn’t open his eyes.

**July 30th, 1993:**

From Leeds, Padfoot walked to Sheffield, only diverting himself long enough to catch and eat a rabbit and steal another drink from a garden hose. After twelve years of gruel, even fur and bones seemed decadent by comparison. He slept for a few scant hours in a park, under the cover of tree and brush.

**July 31th, 1993:**

He was too weak to walk as far as he wanted. The pace was difficult to keep up. His muscles were atrophied; his body was starved. Heartened by the bus ride, he tried his luck at riding the rails. He caught a train headed for Birmingham, and with a quick dash and hidden transformation, locked himself in one of the car bathrooms. There was a mirror above the sink, and after an hour of waffling, Sirius stood up from his crouch on the floor and stared at his reflection in the mirror.

A stranger’s face stared back at him. The evidence his fingers had given him of his physical changes did not prepare him for the sight. His eyes were sunken, with a dull, glazed look to them. His cheeks were eaten out. Every twitch of his jaw could be seen moving the muscles at his temples. His collarbones, his sternum, the tendons of his neck, all showed through his thin skin; doing odd things to his tattoos. Merlin, his shoulders. His _teeth. His hair._ Sirius smiled at the mirror, just to see the effect. A grim death mask. Just the permanent grin of a skull. But then, he was a being without satisfaction or joy, beyond his mission. Azkaban should have sucked the vanity out of him, too. Still, Sirius felt nauseous as he slid back to the floor and cradled his head in his hands.

He realized later, after a mad dash out of the train and onto the platform in Birmingham, that there was no chance he was going to make it to Surrey that day. The packet of biscuits and hot sausage roll he managed to steal from a convenience store that evening was some comfort, though. Sirius risked eating in his human form in the relative safety of a garden shed of an unoccupied house. He polished off the sausage roll in four ravenous bites, relishing the salt and the richness of the meat and pastry. He sang under his breath as he opened up the biscuits, “Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, dear Harry. Happy birthday to you.”

Someday, maybe, if his luck improved, Sirius would make up for all the birthdays he’d missed.

**August 2 nd, 1993:**

Sirius lost a day turned around in Birmingham trying to find the train station, and another trying to board a train to London. An over-attentive station guard chased him out of the station twice, and by the time Sirius had managed to slip into the station from the back, he’d missed all the day’s London trains. He ate nothing that day and slept tucked under a set of stairs leading onto a platform, but he caught the first train the next day and arrived at King’s Cross in London before noon. 

Car exhaust and burnt brakes. Cigarette smoke and wet hair. Hot bodies, oil, warm asphalt and metal. It was the smell of a teeming, thrumming, living beast of a city and it had been years since Sirius had breathed it in. As a dog, he could detect every note and intricacy. His parents had never liked him wandering Muggle London, but Sirius had never had any qualms about ignoring their wishes. Despite the time that had passed since he’d last wandered the streets, he remembered his way well enough. He had plenty of practice tracking down Diagon Alley.

The mood in the Leaky Cauldron was grim. Probably related were the wanted posters of him plastered everywhere, waxen-faced and mad-eyed. But the nice thing about the establishment was that their clientele was so varied that no one looked twice at Padfoot as he trotted into the tavern like he belonged. With the eye of a trained opportunist, he searched the tables for likely targets. People with distractions who had drunk a little too much, without too many witnesses around them. It was still early, and people were still sober. Padfoot settled himself on the cool hearth, tucked his nose under his paws, and waited. The hours dripped past. The crowd of witches, wizards, and assorted beings of all stripes rotated into and out of the tavern. The mood stayed grim, but as the evening progressed, clients got sloppier.

Padfoot stopped laying peacefully on the cool stone floor and began walking around instead, making a dinner of spilled food and table scraps, acclimating people to his presence. There wasn’t much cause for worry. The barman had barely spared him a glance, and few other people were interested in doing more than passing him a crust of bread or a bit of beef fat. With that done, he began eyeing the wands of the drunkest and least attentive customers. A wizard swaying with intoxication was all but dipping his nose in his drink, but his wand was nowhere to be seen. A young woman in a deeply involved conversation with her companion had gone through three pints of ale, but she was dangling her wand in her hand above the table: there would be no grabbing that without causing a scene. He fixed his eyes instead on a hiccoughing wizard who was badly losing a game of wizard’s chess against his self-playing set. His wand was hanging loosely out of the pocket of his robes.

Sirius had long since learned that one of the best ways to accomplish his mischief-related goals was to behave as though he was doing exactly as he ought. So far, that principle had been working almost as well as a dog as it ever had as a man. For all the time it had taken him to reach this point—the walking and train rides, and stolen bus trips—the actual execution was quick and simple. With a quick and quiet step, he strolled up behind the chess-playing wizard, took hold of his wand with his teeth, and trotted out the back door, which was open to welcome in the summer breeze. His heart was still hammering as he pressed himself behind the bins, listened for a moment to ensure no one else had followed him, then transfigured into a human.

Now was the moment of greatest danger: now was the critical moment where failure or delay would doom him. Snatching the wand from his mouth, he gave it a quick flick. The wand paused only briefly before the disillusionment charm sprang forth as a white spark, flooding his skin and disguising himself from immediate recognition. So, twelve years in Azkaban hadn’t managed to suck the magic out of him. Sirius stood, fixed his mind on an area of Surrey he knew reasonably well—a patch of relative wilderness where one summer, a lifetime ago, he and Remus had camped out and roasted marshmallows, and snuck sips of firewhiskey Sirius had stolen. He turned on the spot, and in one short, hard pull, he was there, among dappled trees and hills in the soft shadow of a new night.

For the first time in a long time, Sirius managed something honest that might have passed for a smile. He was going to see his godson very soon, and Peter Pettigrew would have to have a very lucky turn to avoid swift, bloody justice.


End file.
